Midnight Musings
by Katiebugg1321
Summary: Hawkeye POV. This story fits with the others detailing my version of the events following Comrades In Arms. The lighter side of HM angst.


Disclaimer: Mine! All mine!!! Sorry, what I _meant_ to say was that I don't own Hawkeye, or Margaret, or MASH. Although they are on my birthday list. MASH is property of 20th Century Fox, and anybody else to whom it belongs.

Note: This story is part of a group detailing my version of the events following Comrades In Arms. See Quite A Day and It's Terrible When You Can't Trust a War for further elements. Oh, and if you're wondering what Hawk's dream contains, a separate fic explaining it is in the works.

Midnight Musings

By: OneSongKatie

Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce wrenched opened his eyes and sat upright, gasping for breath, a silent scream on his lips. His forehead was drenched with sweat. Hawkeye shivered. He could still feel the terror of—he stopped himself.

It was just a dream, he thought resolutely. He'd been dreaming. _Only a dream_, he repeated quietly in the dark.

Not just _a_ dream, he corrected. It was _that_ dream. Hawkeye blinked rapidly, trying to slow his racing heart.

That made the third time this week.

He looked around. This was not his tent, he noted matter-of-factly.

Hawkeye slowly sat back until only his shoulders and neck remained against the wall, then leaned his head back wearily. He swallowed, for the first time feeling the weight of another human being on his chest. He gradually remembered last night, or at least he thought it was last night. It could very well still be _tonight,_ he reflected wryly. Everything was so fuzzy. _That dream_. Or was it a nightmare?

Stop obsessing, he ordered himself. Think about something else. Calm down.

Hawkeye closed his eyes for a minute, willing his heart to stop beating so rapidly.

When he opened them, he found himself gazing down at Margaret's sleeping form.

She hadn't even moved.

Hawkeye was staggered. He had practically gone into cardiac arrest, and she hadn't moved.

God, she slept like the dead. And he would know, Hawkeye quipped, having performed autopsies.

It was oddly comforting, actually, knowing Margaret wasn't having intensely terrifying nightmares. But then, he mused, she had always been a lot tougher than he.

Margaret was lying with her head and one arm across his chest. He shuddered, feeling the full effects of the nightmare in the chill beginning to consume his body. Only where her arm touched his skin felt warm.

A shaft of light shined thinly across her face in the dark of the tent, allowing Hawkeye to more fully observe her expression. He almost laughed out loud, she looked so serious! She's still giving orders, he marveled, even unconscious.

Hawkeye felt his pulse gradually returning to normal. Good. Chuckling inwardly, he realized that, for the first time, her presence had a _calming_ effect on him.

It was an interesting change, he decided. A little unnerving, though. Usually it was a toss up between intense anger and extreme attraction. With, he added dryly, the occasional smidge of blatant hostility thrown in for flavor.

Lately though, he had begun more and more frequently to feel as if…ye gods. He gasped inwardly. Dare he speak its name? He _liked_ her. When had this happened?

He'd always respected her. Hell, you _had_ to respect her. And he'd never had anything bad to say about her body.

He smirked. Still no complaints there.

But, somewhere between the uncomfortable morning in the hut and now…Hawkeye was dumbfounded. _When had this happened?_

They'd been sleeping together intermittently for how long now? Just under a month, he calculated.

Hawkeye started. Had it really been a month? One month since that night in the hut.

He chuckled. Time really flies when you're having a twisted affair that can, realistically, only end badly and probably violently. Hawkeye paused, taking a moment to appreciate his turn of phrase.

He really ought to start writing some of these down. Publish a book maybe, when this war finally grew tired of itself. _B.F. Pierce's Big Book of Inappropriate Witticisms_. He approved. A best seller, to be sure.

Well, actually, he corrected, smiling in spite of himself, the war wasn't _so_ terrible. Not at the moment, anyway. Hawkeye's smile broadened. This is good, he thought soothingly, concentrate on this. Push the dream to the back of your mind. He swallowed, uneasy again remembering the nightmare.

Margaret turned her head on his chest, murmuring something unintelligible. He watched her a moment.

Life is indeed strange, Hawkeye affirmed sincerely. He remembered when he'd first met Margaret, he'd immediately lamented that looks like that went along with such an abrasive personality.

Hawkeye shook his head. One day, you know exactly what and where, and who the hell _you_ are, the next, everything's gone to hell. You're arguing with someone. You feel this intense, pulsating hatred. Then, somehow, somewhere, a wire gets crossed and that intensity translates into…how do I put it delicately? He'd have to write his book and then consult it, he thought, still grinning.

Hawkeye attempted to logically analyze the night in the hut—which had been fantastic until that blasted morning. He grimaced.

He'd panicked.

It was his way. He sighed, remembering Carlye.

So, Hawkeye had offered a tentative friendship. He figured, rather drastically, at the time, it was all he was capable of giving.

Hawkeye guessed there had been a peace treaty of sorts established after that. But something so simple could never last, not for them.

He let out a short laugh—it had barely lasted 24 hours!

The next day in OR…he couldn't remember exactly the issue. Another nurse gave him the wrong instrument maybe? Something like that. Something infuriatingly typical. And Margaret, being Margaret, reacted with all the sympathy of a Sherman Tank. He shook his head.

She was so brutal sometimes.

He knew now the truth behind such actions. It was when Margaret was most unhappy with herself that she responded with increased hostility to others. It was her own private defense mechanism. Hell, he ought to know! He couldn't count the number of times he'd been the target in question.

Unfortunately then, however, he didn't understand. He'd yelled back at her, leave the kid alone, cut her some slack, don't be so unsympathetic, Margaret, etc. Hawkeye smiled thinly. Bad move.

Clearly furious, Margaret wouldn't even look at him the rest of the day.

But, six hours later, it hadn't mattered.

Hawk couldn't remember who kissed who. All he could recall was how…relieved he'd felt. And desperate. Desperate was probably a better word for immediate reactions, he amended dryly.

In an instant it had all come flooding back—her smell, her lips. It was almost too much to handle that night. He'd just spent eighteen hours on his feet in the operating room up to his elbows—literally—in gore. The rational part of his brain informed him what he _needed_ at that moment was about a week of solid sleep.

Unfortunately, by then rationality had, for all intents and purposes, triggered a land mine and been exploded into little pieces.

All he'd been able to think that night was how much he _desperately_ needed to keep kissing Margaret. At some point—Hawkeye wasn't sure which—they had stumbled back to her tent.

The next night, he knocked on her door. And she let him in. And that was that. It seemed almost too simple, when he considered it now.

And here he was again. For the first time Hawkeye acknowledged the strangeness of their…relationship.

During the day nothing changed. For the most part, they avoided each other, actually. Not avoided, he amended. They still looked out for each other. But then, they'd always done so in the past. He remembered the time Margaret overheard nurses talking about Donald and his _questionable_ behavior. Hawkeye, more than anyone, knew how badly she needed the drink he offered that night.

But then, he'd always had a knack for seeing through the tough-as-nails exterior she persistently hid behind. Hawkeye guessed he even understood to some extent how much she needed it to function.

Lately, though, she had used that ploy less and less. If he had to speculate he'd say it was because of all the emotional restoration going on in the privacy of Margaret's tent.

Hawkeye smirked. Emotional restoration? I _really_ must start writing these down.

Though, when he considered it, this made more and more sense. They were living in the middle of a war zone, trying like hell to stem the tide of destruction. He was lonely, cold, and afraid—all the time, without reprieve.

If only he'd thought of this solution two years ago, he'd still have a head free of grey hair and fewer lines around his eyes, at that! Hawkeye let himself smile. Well, at the rate they were going it was possible he was actually getting _younger_ day by day.

He shifted slightly with this last thought and Margaret's eyes flickered. "Is it dawn? Do you have to leave?" She mumbled into his chest, not fully awake. He gently pulled her body into his arms. Margaret immediately relaxed.

She felt so warm. He momentarily relished the sensation, as if the chill governing his own body was being absorbed, dissipated in the warmth of hers.

Hawkeye leaned his head down to speak quietly next to her ear. "No, Margaret, it's still dark." He kissed her temple. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you before I go," he promised, smoothing an errant strand of her hair. Hawkeye rested his head against hers.

_ That_ was one thing he did not like. Having to sneak around all the time—lying to BJ. Although to be fair, Hawkeye amended, he didn't really lie. He just failed to mention it. Ever.

It had been easy enough to keep secret, anyway. As long as he was back in the Swamp by dawn to say good morning to BJ and Charles before heading to breakfast, no one suspected anything.

Well, he didn't think so anyway. Still, he would like to tell BJ the truth. Things would be easier if he had an ally.

He just didn't know what to say.

Hawkeye resolved to think about it later.

Margaret twisted in his arms, muttering, "The frogs have asked me to come to Tokyo with them, but now isn't a good time for me at all. Do you think I should?" She raised her head slightly, opening her eyes confusedly.

"I think they want me to go on stage and sing, but the cold is terrible for my voice," Margaret informed him, anxiously.

She sounded younger, child-like. "I tried to tell them, but they won't listen." Her eyes blinked up at him hopefully through heavy lids. "Will _you_ tell the frogs I won't be singing? I don't know _how_ to talk to them." She added fretfully, "They're very cross, you know."

Hawkeye smiled down at her. She looked so frail in the soft light of the tent. In this moment, Hawkeye found it nearly impossible to remember the harsh Army Major of song and legend with whom he'd battled almost constantly the last two years of his life.

Not when she was asking him to tell frogs she didn't want to sing on a cold stage in Tokyo.

He considered her seriously, finally asserting with mock sobriety, "Well then, Major Houlihan, you ought to tell those frogs who the ranking officer in this outfit is. You outrank them by _at least_ two species."

She smiled approvingly, tucked her head under his chin and mumbled, "Yes, I'll tell the frogs. That's what I'll do. They won't dare disobey a direct order."

He spoke softly into her hair, "Give 'em hell, Margaret." Hawkeye idly ran his fingertips over the smooth skin of her back. Moments later he felt her breathing on his neck slow.

He could barely contain his laughter. Margaret often talked in her sleep, but the singing frogs took the cake.

And I thought _I_ had scary dreams, Hawkeye thought dryly.

Frogs?

He would have to mention it later. He wondered suddenly if she had some strange frog phobia he didn't know about.

Hawkeye slowly smiled. He could admit here in the darkness of her tent he liked learning something new about her. If only to use it to bother her later.

He did like Margaret—and not just in an extremely attracted to her way. He'd fought with her, respected her, detested her, and more recently, made love to her.

He knew it now. Here, when she was dreaming of frogs. He liked her. He wanted to know more singing-frog type things about her.

Later, he thought. This war ought to last a while longer. Enough time.

Right now, Margaret's steady breathing on his neck was making him exceedingly drowsy. He calculated at least two more hours before dawn. And two hours would undoubtedly be enough to get him through to tomorrow night.


End file.
